


Applied Quantum Superluminal Communication

by lescousinsdangereux



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Big Bang, F/F, Telepathy trope fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s impossible. It breaks the laws of physics. It’s superluminal communication via quantum entanglement and (you would like to be perfectly clear about this) it is impossible. But Skye’s voice is in your head and she’s telling you to call it a brain meld, Simmons, that’s way cooler, and you’re starting to feel as though perhaps you ought to set all your university physics books on fire. Because apparently, nothing in them applies to 0-8-4s… such as the woman you’re suddenly sharing thoughts (and occasionally inappropriate dreams) with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your mind's a mine-field

**Author's Note:**

> I've used what may or may not be the standard notation to mark the telepathy bits in this fic. A thought shared between Jemma and Skye would look _'something like this'_
> 
> Also, it should be noted that there is real science in here... that I completely twisted and bended to my own purposes. Whoops.
> 
> Most importantly, this is for the AoS Big Bang, and thus my far more talented counterpart is the wonderful [smallandsundry](http://smallandsundry.tumblr.com/). You should 100% check out her cover art because it's better than the actual fic!

\---

_Your mind's a mine-field in a minor way_

_Don't just fall in like some mindless stray_

_"We're your friends, you see" is what they say_

_Don't you go away from here_

Admiral Fallow, [_Squealing Pigs_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKy6MWS2iws)

 

\---

 

The ceiling is falling and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicken Little.

(Dad’s voice had reached new heights in terms of pitch. Funny how a simple increase in vocal fold tension could cause such amusement back then; peals of laughter bursting out from your throat with each squeaked out, ‘ _the sky is falling_ ’.)

But now the sky _is_ falling, and there’s little amusement to be had.

Well, _ceiling_ , but you think you’re allowed a dramatic thought or two when there are bits of rock (a form of dolomite, you would guess, but can’t be more specific at the moment) falling down about you and the rest of the team.

“Time to go!”

You’re not about to argue with Agent May on this one, not that there ever is a time you feel the urge to argue with Agent May. Fitz, however, apparently is not of the same mindset. For once.

“Nearly there! The containment field’s at 98%!”

His protest is taken as well as one might expect. “We’ll be 100% dead if we don’t get out of here now.”

“But—!”

And, yes, then comes the physicality; Agent May’s grip around Fitz’s arm as she yanks him to his feet does not look to be particularly gentle. Even in the chaos, you exchange an amused look with Skye… or, at the very least, _try_ to exchange an amused look with Skye. But Skye is far too busy dashing over to grab the _very_ unprotected 0-8-4.

And _oh_ this is very, very bad.

“Skye—!”

“Are you out of—?”

“You’ve got to be—!”

“I know!” Skye cuts everyone (yourself included) off with a sharp bark that probably doesn’t do much to _stabilize_ the crumbling sedimentary rock around you, but silences everyone quite effectively. It doesn’t hurt matters that she has something of a trump card: “Yell at me later. Escape certain death now!”

You don’t need to be told twice, especially when Skye is already running towards the mouth of the cave (you _hope_ —it’s actually quite dim in here, not to mention _winding_ ), grabbing your hand when she gets near enough to do so, and pulling you along.   Which is just as well, because there’s a sharp pain in the back of your skull at that moment and yes, best avoid any more of _that_ , because you’d really rather not be crushed to death by (tentatively identified) dolomite.

Yes, you’d really prefer everyone steer clear of that.

\---

 

Everyone _does_ , though poor Fitz gets a rather nasty gash on his brow, which you tend to as soon as you’re all back on the Bus. Not that your mind is especially on the task, what with Agent Coulson giving Skye a proper chastising right before your eyes.

“—learned absolutely _nothing_ from previous incidents involving touching unprotected 0-8-4s?”

Skye’s eyes flick over to meet yours and _oh brilliant,_ that sensation of plummeting sneaks up on you once again. Your stomach drops, as it always does when you’re reminded of the entirely unpleasant jump from the cargo hold, sans parachute.

“There wasn’t enough time to—”

“Consider your safety and the safety of those around you?” Coulson cuts in, mouth pressed in a thin line.

For once, Skye says nothing, and in the long silence that stretches, you hardly notice anything other than the way Skye bites at the inside of her lower lip to _keep_ silent. Your attention remains there until a sudden bark of your name jolts you back into a wider state of attention. (And you hope the shout that jolted you into awareness was the _first_ calling of your name.)

“Sir?”

“Scan every _inch_ of her, you hear me? No more alien viruses escaping our notice until last minute. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Fitz!” The boy next to you straightens, nearly falling over in the process. “Do the same with that damn 0-8-4. Follow protocol to the _letter_. No mishaps.”

He stares down each member of the room, before finally landing on Skye.

“And _you_. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

You’re quite sure Skye pierces the skin on the inside of her mouth, biting as hard as she does when she nods in response.

\---

Agent Coulson might as well have told a fish not to swim.

“Don’t touch anything,” Skye grumbles, twisting her hands together as she paces the lab. “I can’t _not touch anything_! I have to sleep! And use the restroom! And… _my computer_!”

“I’m quite sure he didn’t _literally_ mean…”

“I have to _walk on the ground_ ,” Skye whines, and you try and fail to not find the petulance so cute.

“Yes, well…”

“I have to touch the air!”

“Well, technically…”

“God! They might as well just thr—” Skye’s mouth shuts with a snap, eyes darting to yours, clear guilt in them.

“Throw you off the Bus?” you finish, one corner of your lips curling upwards.

“Uh, yeah, but… crap, I didn’t mean it like…”

“ _That_ , yes, I know. Nevertheless you must make it up to me.”

Skye looks stricken, but immediately nods. “Sure! Yeah! Anything! What do you…?”

She’s apparently not expecting you to ask for anything that involves you stepping closer, however (if her surprised step backwards is anything to go by), which is silly, because how else is she supposed to be properly scanned?

“Hey! Simmons! No touching! Remember? Anything but _touching_.”

“It’s sweet that you’re suddenly so concerned.” You take another step closer, and hold up your hands. “But I have fancy gloves just for this type of situation, see? And I need your blood. So sit still on that stool and don’t make a fuss and we’ll call it even, alright?”

Though Skye frowns, she complies. “Why are we uneven again?”

With a smile, you grab her wrist and swab the crook of her arm, blowing on it gently. “Because you reminded me of a mentally torturous time when I nearly died. Highly inconsiderate of you, really.”

“I don’t really like to think about it either, you know,” Skye grumbles… rather sweetly, actually.

“I know. Which is why I feel terribly about having to do this." You tilt your head in thought and add, "Again.”

Skye winces as the needle comes into sight. “For like, the fiftieth time, Simmons. Haven’t you gotten enough of my blood? Are you stockpiling this stuff?”

“As wise as that might be for someone who the entire world seems to be after…” The wince that flickers across Skye’s face this time doesn’t appear to have anything to do with any particular object, but rather your words. You’re pushed to apology without knowing why. “Are you—did I say something wrong? I merely meant…”

“Nah, it’s fine. It’s nothing. Just—you know—needles. God, I’m such a wimp.”

You stare at the woman for a second longer, but her face reveals nothing but a slight bashfulness at the supposed weakness. You wonder why you feel the sudden need to probe deeper, but brush it off with a slight roll of your shoulders.

“Okay. Close your eyes?” Skye squints at you, looking for any signs of teasing, but upon finding none, shuts her eyes tightly.

“I hate this,” she mumbles.

You’re well aware, which is why you’re quick and (hopefully) careful enough to make the stick of the needle relatively painless.

“Just breathe, darling. Almost done. Just a bit longer. Keep your eyes closed and—yes, fabulous.”

The needle comes out easily and you place a ball of cotton over the small wound immediately after, pressing lightly with your thumb as your fingers rub over Skye’s elbow. Her eyes open slowly though, as though uncertain as to whether you’re telling the truth or not.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. “Thanks a lot.”

“Better me than Fitz.”

Skye considers that for a moment, and then nods almost grudgingly, fingers brushing over yours as she takes over holding the cotton ball wordlessly.

Even through the glove, you swear you feel the warmth of her skin. You’re not sure where the thought comes from, but it makes you blush—enough so that you feel the need to hide it by busying yourself with the container of Skye’s blood, bringing it over to your workspace and sliding it into your test tube rack.

“Speaking of Fitz, I believe he has you next. He’s out in the cargo bay working on a full body scanner for you, so perhaps…”

“Yeah, yeah, human lab rat, that’s me. Thanks, Doc.”

“Technically, that title is reserved for—”

“— _Physicians, vets, and dentists_ , I know, I know. See ya, Dr. Simmons.”

You roll your eyes, preparing the first slide with practiced ease as Skye slips out of the lab behind you, the door sliding closed with a soft tap.

“Worst patient ever,” you sigh.

“I heard that!” Skye calls back, but you can easily hear the laughter in her words.

\---

“This isn’t—”

Fitz is mumbling. But it’s frantic mumbling, and you’ve long ago learned that concern is warranted when the mumbling turns frantic.

“No, no, no. This can’t be—this isn’t—this is—”

“Fitz?”

He clearly doesn’t hear, fretting over his print-outs and pulling at his short curls as he is.

“I’ve checked the spectrometer. Four times. I’ve checked it, Jemma! But these—this can’t—this isn’t—”

You’ve also learned that sometimes, a bit of gentle force is the best tactic; such as now, when you pull the papers Fitz is desperately clutching in his hands without the slightest warning, eyes looking for the familiar peaks and... not finding them.

“This can’t be right. Fitz, this can’t be right. The machine must be…”

“—Broken I know! But it isn’t! I’ve checked! Maybe—”

“—A distortion in the magnetic fields or—”

“—Abnormal electron shielding or—”

“—Effects on the anisotropic system—”

“—Irregular frequency shifts in the—”

“Do you guys _really_ just not know how to say ‘ _I don’t know_ ’?”

You hadn’t noticed Skye’s entrance, and neither had Fitz, who jumps a bit at the sound of her voice. Still, it’s not an unwelcome distraction, even if she appears somewhat peeved (rubbing at her temple in exasperation) at having walked in on the rapid back and forth.

“There are numerous explanations as to why we might be seeing these results,” Fitz replies, a bit of a sulk in his tone. “And one is just as likely as the other. It’s not so much that we don’t _know_ as we haven’t explored all the possibilities.”

Skye rolls her eyes. “Yeah, buddy, that’s you saying ‘I don’t know’. It’s okay, we won’t hold it against you geniuses. Why don’t you just ask Coulson to look at the 0-8-4? It’s been a day and a half and nothing’s happened to me! —Aside from my blood or whatever apparently breaking your… thingy.”

“ _NMR s—_ ”

“NMR spectrometer,” Skye finishes over Fitz’s verbal protest (and your silent one). “Right, yeah, thanks. Gotcha. I’m right though, right? Best way to figure it out is to go to the source. Maybe then you guys’ll stop giving me a headache.”

The latter point doesn’t seem quite fair, but the former is valid. It’s worth a shot, at the very least.

\---

Agent Coulson is surprisingly (suspiciously) agreeable to the idea. It only takes the slightest hint of convincing before he’s given you permission to examine the 0-8-4… without disengaging Fitz’s renewed containment field, of course.

“You have 27 hours before we rendezvous with Agent Woo’s team, so I suggest you gather all the information you can in this capacity. A more thorough scan will be completed by their cell, but those details will be classified unless we have a specific need for them. And I’d really rather not explain that we have a special need for them, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

You hurry from Coulson’s office, Fitz not far behind, thinking (for perhaps the first time) that you’d rather not have a special need for that additional data either.

\---

You do not _squeal_.

That’s something that must be made perfectly clear; there is no place for squealing in scientific inquiry, and so when Skye swiftly enters the lab, demanding to know what you’re _squealing_ about, she is _obviously_ exaggerating or perhaps just plain wrong.

There may have been a _squeak_ involuntarily produced, but that would be perfectly understandable, given the magnitude of the discovery you’ve just come across. For goodness sake, Fitz is still standing motionless by the Halotable, jaw hanging open like a total buffoon, so you think you should be allowed a simple _squeak_.

But Skye’s completely ignoring your silent protest, and honestly, it only lasts a half a moment anyways, because then you’re drawn back into the floating model of the 0-8-4 that’s has enough magnification for anyone to very clearly make out the absolutely remarkable sight of…

“Are those _bugs_?” Skye whispers, sounding either aghast or amazed or perhaps both, you can’t be sure.

They’re _not_. But they do rather look bug-like; multiple legs, an impressive exoskeleton, antennae, compound eyes… you can forgive Skye for the misconception. But a gentle correction doesn’t seem impudent.

“Well, actually, a bug is an invertebrate of the class Insecta, or more specifically the order Hemiptera, so _bugs_ isn’t the proper terminology in this case.”

“I never said it was,” Fitz mumbles, still peering intently at his tablet and the readings displayed there.

“What?”

“I never said ‘bugs’ was the proper terminology. Obviously I didn’t.”

You frown at Fitz for a moment. “I wasn’t talking to—”

But he continues before you can finish even your own thought.

"Some kind of convergent evolution on a massive scale, perhaps. Clearly there are arthropodal features, but look at the ventral nerve cords! Absolutely remarkable. Transmission of an electrochemical impulse, you think?”

And that’s a bit more interesting than playing who said what.

“It looks capable. But that doesn’t explain the absolutely bizarre spin pattern here. That must be a—”

“—Mistake, I know. But it’s not. It’s not! Amazing. It’s just like the results we saw from—”

“My blood,” Skye mumbles, and you nod, impressed that she’d been following.

“Yes! Exactly, your blood. Remarkable!”

Fitz looks up, brow creased. “What? No. Skye’s blood.”

“That’s what I _said_ , Fitz. Goodness, what’s wrong with you today?”

“What’s wrong with _me_? You’re the one—”

“Okay. Please stop.”

Skye actually steps in between the two of you, hands out in a supplication for peace (and perhaps quiet; she’s still rubbing at her temple in a motion you yourself have become familiar with in the past couple days). But her eyes are on the Holotable, and more specifically, the magnified image before her.

“You’re saying I have something _in common_ with these _bugs_?” You open your mouth to (gently) correct her terminology, but she corrects herself with a sigh before you’re able to. “Or—bug-like alien things.Whatever. That’s hardly the point, Simmons! Bugs-things! Me! Similar! This is more where my mind is!”

“That’s not exactly what we’re saying,” you say calmly, taking a step towards the frowning woman. “It’s more that there seems to be something disturbing the normal spin of electrons in our readings. It might be that these… organisms, though deceased, are emitting some type of magnetic field…”

“…or a low electric current,” Fitz adds.

“Or dipole, or… any number of things. And this could be affecting the spec readings we take. And seeing as you interacted with them… We need to run further tests, Skye. It’s no reason to panic.”

(You hope.)

Still, Skye’s shoulders lose some of their tension and her hands drop, allowing you to (very gently and with gloves still on) pat her on the shoulder. You think she might be in dire need of a very long and tight hug instead, but this will have to do, for now. Until you figure this whole thing out.

And you will figure it out.

(After which the hugging with promptly commence.)

\---

Turns out, it’s a bit more complicated than you had hoped.

Fitz is on his second cup of coffee, and you’re on your third, but the throbbing at the back of your skull will not abate, nor will the scattered (and thus atypical) nature of your thoughts; one moment you’re concentrating on spin coupling and the next you’re thinking about how to perform a spinning backfist and _what_?

“So yes,” Fitz is saying, jolting you from your (admittedly strange) thoughts. “Now all we have to do is tell Agent Coulson that we have no idea what these organisms are or how they function or why they’re contained in an electromagnetic field, because they defy the laws of physics. Lovely. That’ll go over well.”

You sigh, jabbing at the screen of your tablet with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. “It’s not as though he can fault us for not understanding things that counter the fundamental theorems on which quantum mechanics is currently based upon.”

The look Fitz shoots you from across the room is not particularly reassuring.

So perhaps it’s fortunate that Skye chooses that moment to enter the lab. She is a most effective distraction; hair up in a ponytail, still untying the wraps around her hands and wrists, droplets of sweat still sticking to her temples and hairline and bare arms and collarbone, and dripping down underneath the low neckline of her tank and… yes. An incredibly effective distraction.

Possibly _too_ effective, because you miss the first several words out of her mouth.

“Pardon?”

There’s a bit of red to Skye’s cheeks, tinting the light brown of her skin prettily (from physical exertion, you suppose), and thinking about _that_ nearly causes you to miss the repeat of her earlier statement.

“Um—Coulson. He’s ready for you and me. And Fitz.”

The back of your head gives a particularly painful throb, but your wince is more due to the upcoming meeting than anything else.

A meeting that would certainly go a great deal better if you could put a stop to your runaway thoughts—thoughts that were (sadly) not so much uncharacteristic as less _controlled_ than they typically are.

“Right! Yes! Of course! Onwards!”

Skye looks completely bemused, but grins at you anyways, before turning on her heel and heading out of the lab, followed shortly by Fitz, who cuffs you on the arm and gives you an encouraging head nod.

You take a deep breath before stepping out of the lab.

\---

“So what you’re saying is, you have no idea.”

Coulson is frowning, and that’s never a particularly good sign.

“Not _precisely_ ,” you reply, rather tentatively. “We’re saying that these… creatures, from what we observed, exhibit characteristic that are counter to the laws of physics as we know them. They are, of course, deceased, but even _that_ is a bit of a mystery because while they are clearly individual organisms—”

“—They died at the same time. At the exact same time,” Fitz finishes. “They’re linked in some kind of… electromagnetic field? Or—that’s what we suppose must have happened. There’s no evidence to that field still being present—”

“—Aside from the residual effects, which are what have us so puzzled in the first place. These effects seem to invalidate some of the central theorems to quantum mechanics, such as the No Cloning Theorem, wherein a quantum state cannot be duplicated, essentially. The principal quantum number of an electron cannot be replicated—”

“—So you can’t have _up_ and _up_ in an orbital, when all other quantum numbers are identical. It simply can’t happen! It doesn’t exist in nature, so of course our spectrometer isn’t working properly when faced with such impossibility. I’ve checked and double checked and—”

Coulson merely holds up a hand, his expression not at all amused. Fitz sputters to a stop, and you bite at the inside of your cheek to keep from picking up where he left off.

“Will one of you _please_ , in _plain English_ , tell me what all of this means. In ten words or less.”

You and Fitz exchange a look. He shrugs, lips twitching downwards, and you sigh.

“These organisms could do _anything_ , because they are not bound by the laws of physics.”

Okay, yes, that’s 15 words. And a gross oversimplification/exaggeration.

“Explain. _Simply_.”

It’s Fitz’s turn, which you remind him of with a significant look.

“The No Cloning Theorem is what prevents certain ‘supernatural’ abilities from happening in a typical animal. Things like converting a qubit into a classical bit, or FTL—”

“Faster than light,” you explain quickly.

“—communication, or error correction techniques in quantum computation.”

Skye and Coulson are still frowning, so you cut in.

“Teleportation, telepathy, and translating digital data in its purest form, such as in data manipulation or digital interaction.”

That gets a few wide eyes.

“Those bugs can _teleport_?” Skye squeaks.

“No! …Well, there is no way to say for sure, I suppose. It’s merely possible that they have abilities unlike those of any species on Earth. But Fitz and I were unable to discover what those abilities might be. Or if they indeed have any at all. We would need… more equipment, and more time. I’m sure the S.H.I.E.L.D scientists at the Hub will do a fine job in researching the 0-8-4, but…”

It’s hard letting go of a discovery such as this; to not be part of the exploration and experimentation. You had always known it would be hard to let go of the lab life (though less so for you than for Fitz), but sometimes you’re caught off-guard for the yearning.

“But you want to do it yourself.” It’s Skye who finishes your thought this time, and with a knowing smile.

Funny, how quickly your desire to be elsewhere vanishes.

“Precisely. But yes, I understand our time with the 0-8-4 is nearly complete and Fitz and I have gained what knowledge we could with the resources we have available. I’m afraid we cannot tell you much more, Agent Coulson.”

Coulson leans back in his chair, no longer frowning, but clearly not exactly pleased.

“So Skye touching it…?”

“Had no effects other than perhaps disrupting the spin of various molecules in her body. Which, yes, sounds rather drastic, but… it doesn’t seem to have affected her. We’re… not entirely sure why or how. But none of our tests reveal any problems. Which is…”

“Weird.”

“Curious, Fitz. I was going for _curious_.” You shift on your feet, rubbing at your forehead. “But then, Skye always has shown a tendency to surprise us when it comes to these things.”

“Probably because I’m some kind of freak alien,” Skye grumbles, and despite the atmosphere you have to scoff (fondly—apparently it is possible to scoff with fondness).

“Don’t be ridiculous, Skye. This is really no time for such jokes.”

Silence meets your words and you look up from your tablet to find three confused faces pointed in your direction; you meet Fitz’s in hopes of an explanation, but he’s not particular useful in offering up any explanation.

“Ah, Simmons?”

“What? Skye is typically quite humorous! I was merely stating that now’s not exactly the time to joke about being an _alien_ , goodness.” You pause for a moment, considering. “Though it does raise the question as to whether these organisms were perhaps meant as some kind of vessel of information for their extraterrestrial keepers. On a massive scale, couldn’t quantum entanglement serve as a type of coding? If these organisms interacted with a non-human physiology, perhaps…”

Several things happen at once, but it’s only in the background that you notice Fitz gaping at you and a very startled looking Coulson knocking his chair back as he stands, because in the foreground, Skye looks about ready to pass out.

“How did you—? Shit! Jemma! I didn’t say—That wasn’t—oh my god.”

And then Fitz. “What the bloody hell is—?”

And Coulson. “Fitz. Out. Now.”

It all happens in the span of thirty seconds and you’re left feeling very confused, your tablet still cradled against your arm, with Skye continuing to stare at you in something akin to horror, Coulson looking as though he might lock you up in the containment facility, and Fitz… gone—leaving only the sound of the door sealing behind him.

“Earlier, Simmons, you mentioned telepathy,” Coulson says grimly.

This does not clear up the confusion. “Theoretical quantum superluminal communication,” you clarify. “But I don’t—”

“ _You read my mind_.” Skye says this once, very high pitched. And then again. Slower. “You… read my _mind_.”

“Excuse me?”

“That thing! The thing about the… alien.That—I didn’t say that out loud. I just thought it. I was just… joking.”

It’s only because you’re staring at Skye (flabbergasted) that you realize her lips do not move during the follow up to this statement.

_‘Mostly joking. ‘Alien’ is totally a stretch. ’Unknown origin’ doesn’t necessarily mean alien! I think. Oh, god. I hope.’_

“You _weren’t joking_? You’re a—I can—we—”

There’s a limit to the amount of information the brain can process, and you’re quite sure you’ve hit it. The stuttering and stumbling would be mortifying if not for the fact that apparently… but no, you can’t even think it—can’t believe any of this is true—telepathy and 0-8-4s and _Skye_ and oh god, oh god, oh god.

You sit down.

Or… collapse into a conveniently placed chair—that’s probably a more accurate description.

Only Coulson, in fact, remains standing. You can hardly look at him. Or Skye. Adding visual cues to the equation seems an unwise move at the moment.

“Okay.” Coulson clears his throat. “This may take a bit of explanation.”


	2. Don't just fall in

The short of it is:

  *          Skye is a 0-8-4.
  *          You can read her thoughts. Sometimes.
  *          She can read yours. Sometimes.
  *          You cannot tell _anyone_.



\---

It’s far easier to think of it in bullet points; lovely, condensed packets of information.

The reality is much messier (as it always is), with Skye avoiding your eyes and clenching her jaw, and Coulson calmly explaining he will make sure you end up in Siberia (with no ‘science toys’ to keep you company) if you breathe a _word_ about Skye’s _status_ to another being.

Not that you _would_ , of course, and you’re sure Coulson knows that as well.

And though the fact that Skye’s origins are apparently… questionable certainly is shocking and opens up a whole host of questions you would very much like answered, somehow it’s also a bit reassuring, because it answers a whole other host of questions that had been plaguing your mind for some time now. Still, all of that takes something of a backseat to _the telepathy thing_.

That is, of course, not the phrase _you_ would use. But it’s the one that Skye uses, and thus the one you use too.

 _The telepathy thing_ is confusing in that way.

Because now that you _realize_ what’s happening, the frequency seems to increase tenfold; as though now that your minds are both attuned to the _possibility_ of it, it happens far more often. Or at least, you _notice_ it happening more frequently.

Such as when Coulson is threatening to send you to Siberia and you think that such a banishment wouldn’t be completely without positives; you’d once read a study on _Pantheratigrisaltaica_ mRNA that was absolutely _fascinating_ and then Skye asks _aloud_ what the hell a ‘panorama attic’ is and despite the situation, you laugh and Skye thinks that you look really cute when you do that and that’s _interesting_ , isn’t it? and you’re blushing and Skye’s blushing and…

And Coulson ( _AC_?) tells you both to stop being so obvious about the whole thing and _focus_.

So, yes.

Confusing is a good word for it.

\---

Confusing and _problematic_ , because you’ve been told more than a _couple_ times that you might not be the most accomplished liar. You’re getting better, but not to the point you can fib to the man pacing outside of Coulson’s office. The telepathy thing is certainly new to you, but comprehension without words has always been possible between you and Fitz.

“What happened?”

So it’s for the best that Skye is the one to respond, her voice calm and level, her eyes holding Fitz’s without flickering away even once.

“Nothing.”

Fitz’s hands, tangled together in nervous wringing, separate and curl into fists. “ _Nothing_? You don’t bloody well expect me to believe _nothing_ , do you?”

“Yes.” You suck in a breath, but Skye remains calm, her expression sympathetic. “For Jemma’s safety, I expect you to believe ‘nothing’.”

There’s a flicker of _something_ from Skye. A burst not of words, exactly, but fierce emotion. Protectiveness, maybe. It makes you feel warm. (And curious; also curious. You hadn’t realized there was a potential for the communication of pure emotion in this form of telepathy. You still haven’t figured out when and how and _why_ full thoughts were passed back and forth between the two of you at all.)

“Please, Fitz,” Skye says, after a long moment of silence. “This is important.”

At one time, the compartmentalization of intelligence in situations such as these would have been unquestioned by Fitz. But things change. Things change violently and drastically, and suddenly it is not as easy to swallow the concept. You cannot blame Fitz for his hesitation to accept this answer, but as he shifts his gaze to rest on you, you wordlessly beg him to try.

“The pick-up team arrived while you were in there,” he says finally, over your sigh of relief. “They’re packing up the 0-8-4 now.”

Right.The 0-8-4. The 0-8-4 that _isn’t_ Skye.The 0-8-4 full of answers to _the telepathy thing_. Answers that you’d certainly be able to discover if only you were given more than five seconds with the bloody thing. Answers that were now more vital than ever.

 _‘Don’t worry.’_ Skye’s voice cuts into your mental tirade, and it’s only in looking up that you realize that it’s not so much her voice as it is her thoughts. ‘ _We’ll figure this out without it. Okay?’_

It’s going to take some adjusting, this confusing and problematic telepathy thing, but Skye’s thoughts are comforting and certain and you believe her.

“Okay.”

Now if only you could learn to stop responding to her thoughts aloud.

\---

Fitz allows you both to depart without much more fuss, though he does give you a significant look that means you’ll be dealing with him (and his questions) later.

For now, you’re a bit more concerned with other problems. Such as how you and Skye desperately need to talk.

“I know,” Skye mutters. “I know. Let’s just… go back to my pod.”

You are _never_ going to get used to this.

“Me either.”

\---

"So. Now what?”

You’re back in Skye’s pod, about as secluded as is possible on the Bus, and though Skye seems perfectly at ease, sitting cross-legged across from you on the bed, you can sense her unease in her words. It’s a good question; one without an immediate or easy answer, which you’ve found is often the case with questions of worth.

“I wouldn’t mind my questions of worth being a _little_ easier to work out, personally.”

Well, that’s a good a place to start as any.

“We really ought to investigate how this… communication works. For example, why do we hear certain thoughts and not others? Do the thoughts have to be directed to the other member of the pair in order to be heard? I’m inclined to think not, seeing as we were not specially broadcasting to each other in the beginning when we had no knowledge of the ability, which means accidental thoughts might be transmitted, but not _every_ thought or we’d both go mad, so what is the reasoning behind the selection process? Is a specific…”

_‘Jemma.’_

It’s _obviously_ not the first time you’ve heard Skye’s voice in your head. It’s not even the first time you’ve heard her use that tone in your head. But it _is_ the first time you’ve stopped, cleared your mind (as much as possible), and _listened._

It’s the first time your breath catches and your thoughts freeze and you realize that you are hearing Skye. But not just hearing. You are _feeling_ Skye. In one word (your _name_ ) you feel her push for calm, her not-quite-hidden panic, her affection, and her honest belief that this will all work out.

In one word.

The prospect of feeling an entire sentence is almost overwhelming. And if you can feel all that, then what might Skye be getting from you? And… well. You don’t mean to ask, but it’s a great deal harder to censor yourself in this form of communication. Besides, Skye already knows what you’re thinking before you put words to it. Probably.

_‘What are you feeling from me?’_

Skye grins, and you hear it better than you see it, despite her being directly in front of you on the bed.

_‘You’re freaking out. But… not as much about me as I thought you would.’_

There’s anxiousness there, seeping into the words through little cracks in their foundation. Reflexively, you push it away, pouring reassurance on top without words. You hardly notice yourself reaching across the space that separates you and Skye until you’ve taken her hand and feel the warmth from the physical contact and the surprise at the jolt it causes both in you and… in Skye?

But never mind that. You need to _focus_. And you certainly know how to focus. Narrow your concentration to a single point and block out the way Skye’s thumb is rubbing a circle around one of your knuckles or how she’s musing on how your skin can be so soft when she’s never seen any moisturizer in the lab and… _focus_.

‘ _About you being a 0-8-4?’_

And… that might be applying a bit too much focus. You wince, but Skye shakes her head and chuckles lightly.

_‘Yeah. That. It doesn’t freak you out? How can you be more worried about the whole telepathy thing breaking the laws of physics than me being a weird alien, or whatever?’_

It _is_ rather silly, when you think about it. A theorem was merely a _theorem_ and while it was certainly shocking when such a foundational one was disproven, it was hardly unreasonable that your understanding of the world and the universe around you was currently flawed, especially when the scientific community as a whole had gone ages without any concrete evidence of life outside of the planet. Or, at the very least, no concrete evidence had been shared with the general community until an army of aliens invaded New York City.

_‘To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I have had time to fully process any of it. But I…’_

Skye is still _Skye_. Nothing has changed other than your perception. That is what you want to convey, but you’re not entirely sure how to do so without undercutting the significance of the discovery or cheapening the struggle that Skye has surely gone through after learning such a thing or…

Skye’s left hand joins her right, enveloping yours more completely.

_‘I get it.’_

And you understand as well. Skye is grateful without words. Without clear thought.

“I still think you ought to—perhaps—explain. Not to force you into it, but… it’s highly probable I will learn about it whether you would like me to or not.” You speak aloud, mainly to distinguish this tentative attempt to allow Skye to phrase things in carefully considered words from the barraging demand for answers you are no longer able to hide.

( _Why didn’t Skye tell you? When did she find out? What did she know? What does this mean?_ )

Skye fidgets and her grip tightens for a short moment; you consider leaving or attempting to extinguish your curiosity, but, _oh_ , you don’t think you’ll be able to because there’s so much to _learn_ , but also Skye is your friend and you want to help her, but perhaps this isn’t the best way because you hate that crease in Skye’s brow and don’t want to be the cause.

(You’ve always worked so hard to introduce a filter to your speech and the fact that you are now entirely without it is really quite problematic.)

“No, you should know,” Skye finally says, and you try not to pay too much attention to her conflicting thoughts. “I just… it’s weird, you know? It’s really _weird_. All of this is kind of messed up.”

_‘I can help, Skye. If you permit me.’_

“I know.” She swallows. “I… I trust you, Jemma. Really.”

Her words are deliberate; mind nearly removed of anything but the force of them.

It seems impossible that anyone should be so sure of anything.

(But then… aren’t you?)

\---

When you wake the next morning, your back is sore and your legs are stiff. For a moment, you are preoccupied with accelerating aging, lactic acid build up, overproduction of antibodies… until your eyes open and your senses realign.

“Doesn’t your brain have any _downtime_?” Skye grumbles, her head buried in the crumpled sheets of her bed, her legs thrown over your lap. “I swear I had dreams about electrons. I don’t even get what electrons _do_.”

 _‘And god, don’t even try to explain it either,’_ Skye continues, silently. _‘My head can’t take it. What time is it? How late where we even up? How did you sleep sitting up like that? How do you look so fucking good this early in the morning? I need coffee. Christ.’_

The questions blur together in a slur of thoughts that you barely catch, let alone process. There’s a throbbing in the back of your head and a flush to your cheeks and you’re not sure you can sort of out the exact origin of either.

“I…” Skye’s thigh twitches under your palm as you sit up properly, rolling your shoulders and twisting your back. “Yes. Coffee. Let’s start with that.”

\---

The series of curious glances completely escape your attention for a length of time that is rather embarrassing. To be fair, you _are_ a bit exhausted, not to mention attempting to focus on adding the _‘proper_ ’ amount of cheese to Skye’s omelet, and that leaves little room for paying attention to the other members of the team now present.

_‘This seems like quite a bit of cheese. I am aware of the nutritional benefits vis–à–vis—’_

_‘Okay stop. Anything that follows the phrase ‘vis–à–vis’ is not something I want to hear. Especially if you’re hating on my cheese. Step back, Simmons. Just step ba—no don’t_ actually _step back you dork! It’s an expression!’_

There’s a great deal of warm and pleasant feelings being sent your way, and it detracts from the slight embarrassment you feel when you step back up to the stove, even if your cheeks remain tinted pink for other reasons entirely.

 _‘It looks cute,’_ Skye thinks, surely without filter _. ‘Pretty in pink and whatnot.’_

So maybe the summation of these things explains why you are quite surprised to find two _very_ curious pairs of eyes flickering back and forth between you and Skye as soon as you turn around to deliver Skye her breakfast. Indeed, Skye seems oblivious to the strange looks as well, concentrating on adding the ‘ _proper’_ number of blueberries to your porridge in the shape of a smiley-face, and does not glance up until you unwittingly bring it to her attention.

“What?”

Tripp and Fitz shrug in what looks like a practiced gesture, such is its synchronicity. It’s Fitz who you focus on, head tilting slightly, but he merely frowns at you in return. Still a bit sore about being left out of the loop, apparently. It’s understandable, really. And you hate doing it, but… orders. There is no one you trust more than Fitz, but you have orders. The world has crumbled down around you, but you still understand the necessity for orders. _Practical_ orders, at the very least.

And with Skye’s life at stake…

The woman in question abandons her quest to stare down Fitz and Tripp to the point of revealing all their secrets, and turns a much softer gaze in your direction, pushing the bowl of porridge across the counter (and flipping it so the smiley-face is properly oriented).

 _‘It’s_ oatmeal _, you crazy Brit. And don’t argue. That’s what it says on the box.’_

_‘Silly Americans. Always trying to re-label things that have perfectly good names already. And putting ketchup on your eggs.’_

_‘Really? You’re really gonna start criticizing my American food choices? I know there’s something called Spotted Dick in the UK, and I know it’s eaten. Enough said.’_

You giggle before you realize the conversation hadn’t been made public knowledge and Skye shoots you a look that is not so much warning as it is fond amusement. The not at all concealed grin doesn’t really help sell it, either.

“Why do I feel like whenever I’m on this plane, I’m missing about 75% of what goes on?”

Tripp doesn’t look especially put out, though his grin is a bit wry. The same cannot be said for Fitz.

“ _Bus_ ,” he corrects, his frown deepening. “And it’s probably because you _are_.”

The smile of your blueberries seems a bit mocking now, when you focus on it to avoid Fitz’s gaze.

\---

For the first time, you feel fortunate to be left behind while the rest of the team (sans Coulson) leaves the Bus for a mission.

It's not especially usual for them to leave you behind, but Coulson had been adamant that you had more important work to do. Work that didn't particularly need to be discussed with the rest of the team, he had added (completely unnecessarily, you think, because Fitz's frown had turned only _more_ suspicious when Coulson told you to remain on the Bus).

But never mind that; you were happy to be left alone for once.

To have the lab to yourself.

To have your _mind_ to yourself.

Though, admittedly, that last one isn't completely true; you still _feel_ Skye—whispers of her emotions more than actual words or thoughts. It makes you almost... miss her. Which is silly, really, because you need this time alone to _work_ and to figure this out. But... you still miss her. And you're nearly sure she misses you as well; those little pricks at your neurons somehow translate to a bit of wistfulness, every now and then.

It's something to perhaps worry about, though. The connection hadn't been this strong even the day before; standing on opposite sides of the Bus had resulted in no transmittance of any emotions of any kind. Thus, it was strengthening, and though Skye did not complain about it as such, you get the feeling that her headaches were becoming more of a bother as well.

So yes, certainly something to be concerned about.

And you have much work to do, because none of your instruments have been of any use whatsoever and you had lost a vital piece of information in the form of the original 0-8-4 and this is entirely new branch of the physical and biological sciences and you have no earthly clue as to where to begin, but....

You still miss Skye.

\---

You know when she's on her way back, though.

Immediately. As soon as she's within a certain radius (a limit you should surely start graphing), her thoughts come in clear once again, no more of the fuzzy static of her emotions, fading in and out.

 _'Just wanted to let you know we were safe_ ,' she thinks, and you sigh a little in relief, out loud. _'You missed me, huh?'_

There's a smugness to Skye's tone, but it's covering for a multitude of things, you think. Not the least of much is her own relief at being on her way back.

 _'Yes. I did_.'

\---

"This isn't like... a tether kind of thing, is it?" Skye asks, aloud, as soon as she's back.

"Hmmm?"

You've finally gotten into a stride (uncoupling the spin pattern with electromagnets had been a little stroke of genius, you can't help but think, even if Skye _could_ potentially hear you) and you're not much in the mood to be distracted. Still, Skye sounds a bit hesitant and concerned and that's reason enough to look up from the readings on your tablet.

"I mean... like a tether. You know—connecting one device to another."

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Skye," you reply, honestly. "We are, of course connected, but..."

"No, like..." Skye sighs. _'Am I always gonna feel like something's missing when I'm not close enough to hear you?'_

It's a good question (again). But not one you have an answer to yet.

"I don't know."

Skye shrugs, a little sheepish. "I just... I dunno. I'm not used to... needing people. And this is sort of even more... intense."

"I know, Skye. I'm doing all I can to figure this out."

"Yeah, I know. I'll... let you get back to work."

That isn't what you had been hinting at, but Skye's smile (and the warm thoughts she sends your way) tell you she knows that. And then, just before she exits the lab, there's another rather significant hint.

"I'm glad it's you, Jemma. If I had to be stuck to anyone, I'm glad it's you."

She leaves before you can reply in kind.

But that's hardly a problem. She knows you feel the same.

\---

Five hours and thirty-four minutes pass before you see Skye again.

You're not counting, but you _do_ have an impressive memory, so when Skye returns to the lab, telling you it's _midnight_ and that means it's _bedtime_ , you're aware of the amount of time that has passed. (That’s certainly all it is.)

"Oh, but Skye, I—"

"—Am _so_ close to unlocking the mysteries of the universe or whatever. Yeah, I know. But you can finish it up tomorrow, okay? Sleep is good. Here."

Surprisingly you hadn't noticed the smell, not until Skye is shoving a hot mug directly under your nose.

"Not... tea?" You sniff, frowning a little. "Hot chocolate?"

"Don't pretend to complain," Skye smirks, leaning against the bench, close enough for you to smell _her_ as well (nothing flowery or overt, simply _fresh_ , like the acidity of the rain reacting with organic debris). "I know it's secretly your favorite."

That's true.

Which makes you wonder what other secrets you've already given away.

You stare at Skye and try to hold back the things bursting in your chest.

\---

That night is the first time you share a dream with Skye.

You're not sure whom the dream belongs to, exactly, because it's a strange mix of robots and aliens and screeching chickens that foretell upcoming doom and falling skies.

It's really, really strange.

Which is what Skye says when you wake up, and at first you think you're still dreaming, because it's like she's right _there_ in your bed, whispering in your ear. But no, her soft chuckle is merely in your mind, and she drowsily apologizes for the robots before drifting back off to sleep, seemingly unconcerned with what just occurred.

You can't manage the same; your breath comes faster than a dream full of robots and chickens should merit, but you are unable to logic away your creeping concern. Because now you wonder; what might you experience together next?

 

\---

You try to warn her about it. Honest and truly.

But her legs are somehow moving faster than your thoughts, and she trips over the hastily dropped bag in the bay before you can alert her to its presence.

The upside is that you are ready to catch her; you may not be the best field agent, but you’ve built a few reflexes up, if nothing else, and you are able to prevent Skye from hitting the metal ground. The downside is, that puts Skye’s face in very close proximity to your own, which is something you’d been rather hoping to avoid while at the same time thinking of it nearly nonstop in a manner that was positively worrying given the nature of the connection between you and Skye and _oh_ it was difficult to control your thoughts when Skye’s eyes were looking rather darker than normal and _think of something else, Simmons, surely you can think of something else_!

“The Skye is falling!” you blurt out and Skye’s expression shifts into one of fond annoyance as she rolls her eyes and mercifully (torturously?) steps back, out of your arms.

“Cute, Jemma Little. ‘Cause I’ve _never_ heard that one before.”

You hope Skye cannot hear (or feel) your sigh of relief.

\---

"I need you out there today, Simmons."

“Out there?” You blink at Coulson. “Out there as in _out there_? As in out there in the field?”

“Yes.” He’s wearing the small half smile that Skye calls his ‘agreeable dad’ expression. “I know you’ve been busy with… other matters, but I need you and Fitz to both be working to take down the anti-signaling field. It’s not based on a network so Skye will be unable to hack it; we think it may be biochemically formed, in fact.”

“Bioelectrogenesis of some kind? A cell potential imbalance in the manner of _Electrophorus electricus_? Which, _really_ , not the most imaginative name, I’ve always said—though no, you mentioned a blockage of communication and thus—”

“We don’t have enough information to know for sure,” Coulson cuts in gently. “Which is why we need you and Fitz on scene. If you feel… up to it.”

“Oh, of course, sir. I am in no way incapacitated by the…” You lean closer to whisper, “...incident. Perfectly fit for duty,” you continue, perhaps a tad _too_ loudly.

Coulson smiles again. “Glad to hear it.”

\---

“Oh, bugger, we are _not_ equipped to deal with this!”

The town below you (nothing more than a few leveled homes that surely cannot contain anything other than broken furniture, rats, and (of course) a trap door to a secret underground facility) is deserted, at first glance, but the barrier surrounding it hums with life.

“If we could find the source,” Fitz continues to mutter. “If there were an electrical uplink or a central unit or _anything_ , but Simmons, there’s no way we can…”

With a hum that raises the hair on your arms, the barrier disintegrates.

“…shut this off,” Fitz finishes with a frown.

“We all know this is a trap, right?” Skye chimes in, and you’re not sure how she can feel such amusement given the circumstances. “Like, the most obvious trap in the history of the universe. And I’m including cinematic history in that, as well.”

‘ _Hell, I’m including Bugs Bunny type stuff too,_ ’ she adds silently.

“We need to split up.”

May sounds, as she often does, untroubled. Skye, as she often does, groans.

“Are you kidding me? You _do_ know the movies I’m talking about, right? The obvious trap? The ‘we have to split up’? The inevitable death of the invaders, picked off one by one?”

There’s a long moment of silence.

Fitz shifts on his feet.

“We need to split up,” May repeats blandly.

Skye groans. Again.

\---

“This is a horrible idea,” you mutter, handing Fitz a pair of pliers with one hand and typing on your tablet with the other. “Absolutely dreadful.”

Fitz ignores you, which is fair, seeing as you’re nearly ignoring yourself, eyes flicking between the work before you and the field below you, where May and Skye wait behind a grouping of pine trees, May staring intently at her watch.

In less than one minute they (and Tripp and Coulson, on the other side of the compound) will enter the area that had previously been blocked by the shielding, which you and Fitz and currently attempting to tap into, despite your lack of resources.

“Perhaps if we reverse the polarity,” Fitz mumbles. “Remove this black wire and…”

“Yes, place it here, I see.”

It’s Sleepy you’re working on; attempting to send the drone into the shield that will surely come back on as soon as Skye and the others step into the field of play.

In twelve seconds.

“Right, if it can interact with the shielding. Release a pulse…”

“…At the right moment.”

“Let me just…”

“Fitz!”

“I know.”

You look up helplessly. Skye and May charge into the area, guns up—sprinting for the closest cover and…

The barrier goes up. Immediately.

“Fitz!”

“I _know_.”

It’s something like a horror film; watching, helpless, as Skye and May move forward and then suddenly, the ground directly behind them opens up and there’s the tip of a gun and—

' _Skye! Move_!'  

Skye listens.

You are so very grateful that Skye listens… and that the message pierces the barrier—how ridiculous that you had not tested it as soon as it came back up—how unintelligent and _stupid…_ but it hardly matters because Skye moves without hesitation, pulling May with her, and the sudden spray of bullets from the turret mark only the ground where they had been standing not even a second before.

“Oh my god,” Fitz breathes. “How did she—”

“It doesn’t matter, Fitz! Get ready!”

The turret is still shooting bullets, and you really don’t have time for speculation. Thankfully, the drone is up, flying towards the shielding, and as it hovers just over the tip of the dome, Fitz nods at you.

A few keystrokes later and Sleepy drops. Hits the shield. And…

The sky flashes a brilliant blue. So brilliant that you have to cover your eyes against the brightness. But it’s gone quickly, and when you blink away the spots swarming your vision, the way ahead is clear—no obstruction between you and Fitz and the rest of the team below.

“Ready the next one,” Fitz mutters, though you’re already typing, before the spots in your vision have completely cleared, Fitz’s hands making last minute modifications to another drone (Grumpy this time). “And go.”

Fitz takes over the flight controls after lift off, sending the drone for the turret, which thankfully (though perhaps that is not the proper word) continues to focus on Skye and May, wearing down the concrete wall they are presumably hiding behind.

‘ _Still hiding. Still being shot at, yeah. Any day now, Simmons.’_

_‘Just one moment.’_

You are unable to keep the nervousness out of your transmission to Skye, though her thoughts sound perfectly calm. Which is likely why Skye is an agent trained in infiltration technique and you… well, you make drones fly in the air and release electrical charges that shut down turrets.

‘ _Hopefully?’_

Okay, there’s a slight bit of panic attached to that one, which you do your best to ignore as Fitz lands the drone on the turret and with a few more keystrokes… it shuts down.

You sigh in relief and feel Skye do the same.

‘ _Just another day in the office, huh?’_

Your burst of laughter gets a strange look from Fitz, but you’re too relieved to stammer out some kind of excuse.

\---

“So I’m guessing this is _your_ area of expertise.”

Skye is grinning, though everyone else is _not_ , perhaps deterred by the very large and somewhat frightening HAZMAT GEAR REQUIRED sign directly outside of the door Skye now gestures to. (That, and the bit of blood matted to Tripp’s temple—courtesy of a stray shard of concrete.)

“Yes, I suppose it is. I will be quick.”

May nods and directs Coulson and Tripp outside to watch the front exit, while Fitz hands you a suit from the locker behind him before plugging into one of the research terminals across the room.

 _‘Be careful, okay?_ ’

_‘You say after being shot at with heavy artillery for several minutes?’_

Skye shrugs and grins again, watching as you begin to take off your shoes.

‘ _I’d rather face that than what’s in there. It’d probably make my head explode. Just the names of all the stuff in there, I mean.’_

With a quiet laugh you remove your vest and hand it to Skye, followed by the light long-sleeved shirt you have on underneath.

 _‘You’re always underestimating your own intellect. It’s rather silly, because you are brilliant and… ‘_ “… Oh, bugger, where are those boots?”

You cast a glance around the small room, before spotting them with a quiet a-ha, hidden underneath a desk.

‘ _…and you shouldn’t put yourself down in such a manner,’_ you continue, dropping to your hands and knees to reach the required footwear, _‘because you are capable and brilliant and beautiful and remarkable in numerous ways.’_

There is no response from Skye, aside from a muddled curse and a whisper of an image coupled with a flush of heat that makes you blush for reasons unknown. And when you back out of the tight spot and once again stand, Skye is staring at you in this somewhat dazed manner that feels familiar, but not enough that you can identify it properly.

Until:

‘ _God, you’re hot.’_

You nearly choke on the air. Skye’s skin nearly turns an entirely different shade.

“Skye!”

You both jump, but it’s only May, standing with a hand on her hip and looking at you both in a way that’s far too knowing.

“Did you forget which assets we are meant to be focusing on?”

“What? No! I was… I’m going to help Coulson. And Tripp. I’m going. Now. Right now.”

May turns her gaze on you as soon as Skye scurries off; you try not to gulp.

“Oh! Yes. I’ll just…”

You gesture wordlessly to the HAZMAT area.

It’s almost a relief to seal your helmet on and enter.


	3. Don't you go away from here

The (short) bus is quiet on the way back.

You avoid the gaze of both Fitz and Skye, and, oh why not, May's as well, despite her being in the front seat. The view outside of the van is absolutely _fascinating,_ after all _._ Who would ever tire of endless pine?

But the silence can only last for so long, even with two people concentrating on keeping their own thoughts from each other and a third who was simply quiet as a rule.

"You're not very subtle, are you?"

Skye panics. You panic.

May does not take her eyes off the road, though you imagine she doesn't need to in order to take in the response to her question.

"Subtle? You mean about my love for... coffee?"

It's a pretty weak response, and you broadcast the thought to Skye. She returns with an image of you complimenting Sitwell's bald head, which... point taken. (But also, the clear and steady image thing is new. You attempt to send a literal warning sign to Skye, but you don't get anything back.)

"The non-fraternization rules are in place for a purpose. If it interferes with your job..."

There's a weird surge of relief, but also renewed panic once again. In the seat next to yours, Fitz chokes on something.

"What? No! No. There isn't anything—Jemma and I aren't—that's not—"

May's response is... silence.

Not much of a surprise.

Skye's response is a sharp ' _shit_ ' that only you can hear.

And you? You blush. A lot. And keep looking out the window.

\---

The (regular) Bus doesn't bring much relief.

You think you might go crazy from the combination of May's disapproving gaze and Fitz's sad puppy face and Skye's... nothing. There's nothing from Skye and that's the worst of it all. The sending images thing is new, but so is this apparent ability to block you out completely—a white blank wall that Skye had forced between the two of you approximately three seconds after May's unfortunate misinterpretation. A few images make their way through, but nothing concrete, and out of some kind of ingrained politeness, you try not to think _too_ much about what that one flash of bare skin had meant.

To be honest, Skye's restraint is impressive and likely worth looking into, but also annoying, and not something you particularly have time for at the moment, not with everything else taking up a surprising amount of metaphorical space in your metaphorically large brain.

Which is why the next time you see her, you immediately pull her into the closest empty hallway, down below deck. Though your hand jerks away from her as soon as you’ve gotten her there because… skin. For some reason you feel you ought not to think about the bare skin of Skye’s wrist and… _god_ , you are falling apart.

You could talk out loud—perhaps that would be kinder—but you find yourself using non-verbal communication. Maybe to keep from focusing on the emotions you and Skye seem to both be feeling. Just the words.

 _'We should talk about it._ '

 _'Or we could... not?_ '

' _Skye..._ '

' _I mean, you already know right? You can feel... look it's no big deal_.'

_'Skye...'_

_'Seriously, let's just... for now. Leave it be.'_

"…Okay."

You twitch and Skye twitches and both of you try not to look at each other and it’s all remarkably unpleasant.

But then the thought occurs to you (and you ask it aloud):

"You think they're not real, don't you."

"What?" Skye's tone is one of such disbelief that you realize you must have completely missed the mark. It happens time to time in social situations.

"Oh. I was simply considering... I thought you might have considered as well that these feelings we are... feeling may not be entirely organic."

“'We'”? Skye’s eyes widen and you try to stay calm.

"Yes. Surely you..."

"No, uh, yeah. I know. I just... what do you mean?"

"It's possible this connection has fostered some kind of emotional bond that is deeper than what was there before. Obviously I have no evidence to this, but it seems plausible that in any magnetic rewiring of our neural pathways, there might be side-effects and..."

You stop because the wall is up again. Very blank and very solid.

"Right," Skye says, aloud. "Yeah. I hadn’t—that makes sense, though. So... we just wait till you figure all this out. And then things'll be all _normal_ again."

There's something in her voice you can't define; the inflection on 'normal', perhaps.

"Yes," you begin slowly. "That is... a possibility. But, Skye is something..."

"Nope! No. Look I just... no offense... but I'd kinda like you out of my head. I'm not super good at this. I'm hardly used to having... friends like you guys. And now sometimes I think about how your mum cried at your graduation and how Zirconium is a really cool element and… this is just a bit much, okay? So... um... I'll let you get back to work."

Skye's turning and walking away before you can even really respond.

 _'Okay._ '

It might be your imagination, but you think the word might bounce back. Non-received.

\---

(This time, it takes five hours and fifty-three minutes before you see Skye again.)

\--- 

The room is silent, and so is your mind.

It seems impossible and probably is, but Skye’s thumb is pressing into the knot of your tie and her fingers have curled around the base, and you are holding your breath and cannot think of _anything_ other than the light pressure on the column of your throat.

“Skye…”

 _‘No.’_ Her tone is calm. Quiet. Sure.‘ _Like this.’_

Like _that_ ; so you can _feel_ Skye’s every intention injected straight into your cranial nerves.

_‘Skye…’_

_‘Better.’_

The pressure increases on your throat and your exhalation pierces the silence with surprising force; Skye is close enough that the gust flutters the few strands of hair clinging to the sides of her cheeks, and you feel captivated by the slight movement. So captivated, you hardly notice when Skye releases her grip on your tie (would not notice at all if not for the way her fingertips graze the notch of your jugular), until her hands are suddenly playing with the hem of your sweater.

_‘You’re warm, aren’t you?’_

It’s not much of a question, even if Skye’s thoughts hold the proper inflection of one. Still, you nod. Once. And Skye waits for that smallest of gestures before tugging upwards. She moves slowly, but the cool air hits the bare skin of your stomach and you know your shirt has stuck to the cotton of your sweater. It’s a simple imbalance of charge on the surface layer of the fabric—easily rectified by an application of force in opposite directions—but then one of Skye’s hands finds that revealed skin and suddenly you’re not so sure what _any_ of that even _means_. Or why you would ever care.

 _‘You_ are _warm.’_

Correction: you are on _fire_. Your shirt drops back down with a final tug, but Skye’s hand is still underneath and you are on _fire_.

“Oh, god, Skye…”

_‘No. Remember? Like this.’_

“I…”

You don’t know if you possibly _can_.

Not with Skye looking at you as though she can read every single emotion ricocheting around the inside of your skull (confusing you to the point of inaccurate _metaphors_ ) when her fingers begin to slide up your stomach and climb up your rib cage (skipping the false ribs and touching on the 7th, then 6th, then _oh god_ , nearly to the 5th).

“Skye, I…”

She shakes her head and her fingers inch back down a rung.

You wet your lips and try again.

‘ _Skye. Please.’_

The fingers move back to their earlier position and you shudder; Skye’s eyes are very dark and very close and you don’t know that you’ve ever seen them either quite so dark or quite so close ever before. In fact, you’re sure of it. Because if you _had_ , you certainly would have suffered the same kind of sinus tachycardia you seem to be experiencing now, your heart rate increasing to a point that (you’re intellectually aware) is well within the bounds of an appropriate physiological response to a catecholamine surge caused by arousal (but illogically think may cause you to pass out at any second).

_‘Please, what?’_

Skye’s lips curl, though you can hardly see them, as close to your own as they are.

‘ _You know._ ’

Surely she does. Surely she can feel your erratic pulse and fast breathing and rushing thoughts and (perhaps most of all) the _want_ that nearly vibrates within you.

Because you can feel it in her.

When you close your eyes you can feel that too; the way your name repeats as a cadence that matches the pound of her heart—the way she _wants_ —the way she aches to _touch_ every inch of your skin as her fingers trace the curve of your breast and to _smell_ the scent of your shampoo when she presses her lips to your neck and to _taste_ the curve of your jaw as she licks her way along it.

 _‘That?_ ’

 _‘Yes._ ’ You nearly groan. _‘Yes. All of that.’_

Even with your eyes closed, you’re aware of her intention a split-second before it happens, but it hardly matters, because once Skye’s lips are on yours, time becomes irrelevant.

Skye’s lips are on yours and the touch is light and tentative and _why is it light and tentative_ and you feel and hear her laughter at the thought and she’s calling you _demanding_ and you’re about to respond with something extremely clever and witty, but then her mouth is opening and her teeth scrape against your upper lip when you suck in a breath of air (air that comes from Skye’s own lungs—slightly deoxygenated, of course, but you don’t think that’s the main reason you feel dizzy).

Because Skye’s free hand has found your—no, Jemma’s—no, _your_ tie again and she’s tugging it (and you) closer and her other hand is sliding back, thumb running along the underside of your breast and _god_ , when she bites down on Jemma’s—no, yours—no—

—No, _Jemma’s_ bottom lip, you feel like you might die because you can taste Jemma’s ChapStick, which you’re positive is strawberry flavored because you’ve seen it lying around her lab and it’s about the only label you understand in that place. Well… if you’re lucky you can pick up a few more things—two percent of the labels, maybe—that’s pretty much your max comprehension of everything in that place, and honestly, everything that goes on in Jemma’s head, normally.

But not now. Definitely not now. Now you understand _everything_ , because ‘everything’ is mostly _your name_ and _please_ and sort of chant of _godgodgod_ and… basically the same sort of things that are running through your own when Jemma tangles her fingers in your hair and slides her tongue against yours and _ohshitohgodohfuck_ you need more skin. You need—Skye needs—no, _you_ need more skin and it’s like Jemma can hear you (which, yes, obviously, she totally _can_ ) because she’s pulling your henley up and over your head and it actually kind of _sucks_ for just a moment—that moment when you have to separate your lips from hers—but then you’re crashing back together with even more force than before and for the first time you’re glad that these pods are so fucking small; it makes it easier to push Jemma—no, you—no, Jemma—no—

—No, _you_ back and onto the bed and Skye’s body lands on top of yours and her knee is right between your legs and she’s frantically pulling at your tie and then the buttons of your shirt and—yes—finally skin on skin and you could just die, you could actually just—

—Just—

— _Wake up_.

There is no resistance when you lurch upwards, eyes flying open and breath coming in quick short pants. There is no resistance because Skye’s body is not on top of yours and there are no hands on your skin though there _is_ a wetness between your thighs and _oh, god._

You stare at the wall that connects your pod to Fitz’s and it’s like you can see straight through to the next pod over, where Skye lies in a too large t-shirt and boxer shorts and slightly mused hair and heavy eyelids and long fingers and sure hands and _shit, shit, shit—_

_‘J—Jemma?’_

You hadn’t known it was possible to stutter via your mental link, but Skye’s apparently managed it. That’s not exactly the bit you’re focusing on though, because in that word (in your name) there is… _everything_. And how does one respond to that?

How can you possibly respond to any of this?

_‘Skye—did you—?’_

Skye licks her lips and you _swear_ you can feel her tongue against your own and—

_‘Yeah. Yeah. I definitely—we definitely—’_

Right. And this is precisely the exact _opposite_ of giving Skye time to think on things, isn’t it?

You feel your cheeks heat up as you shift a bit on your mattress; it doesn’t relieve any of the embarrassment or (worse) the coiled pressure below your stomach and honestly, it just makes it all a bit worse. A lot worse.

_‘Oh, bloody hell, this is—’_

_‘Bad… or too good—or—um. Bad. I meant bad. Were you going to say ‘bad’?’_

The sheets underneath you are bunched and rumpled, and you grab a handful, breathing deep and grasping for calm.

_‘Perhaps we ought to—we should… sleep. Yes! Sleep. Just… sleep.’_

It’s a laughable idea. You know this. You’re well aware.

And clearly Skye is as well.

 _‘Sleep! Sleep?’_ You cannot, of course, see Skye’s face, but you know it to be pinched in incredulity. _‘How the hell am I supposed to sleep, Jemma? I haven’t been this freaking turned on since… fuck, I don’t even know. And—shit—don’t make that face! It was your dream too! It was—it was_ our _dream! And it’s great that you can just turn it all off and go to sleep, but I’ve got to take care of this!’_

Take care of it.

Your thighs tense at even the thought.

Masturbation is perfectly fine and natural, of course, and there were actually a variety of health benefits reportedly associated with the action such as maintaining hormone levels, improving pelvic circulation, not to mention the mood elevation—

_‘Oh my god, Jemma. Look, fine. It’s weird. I know it’s weird. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. And—look—I’m going to take a cold shower, okay?’_

_‘What! No!’_ Skye’s thoughts freeze and you realize what you’ve said. You stare at the ceiling intently and miss the plastic stars you’d once had as a child. At least that would be something else to focus on. ‘ _That is… I’m not uncomfortable. Or—well—yes, I am uncomfortable. I mean, goodness! I know, logically, that this is most certainly a naturally byproduct of linking our consciousness and emotions and thus a shared dream of this nature would have likely happened to anyone in this situation and—‘_

You’re rambling. And don’t quite believe what you’re saying. Had you and Fitz mind-melded in this way, this most _certainly_ would not have been the result. You’ve learned quite well by now that the two of you do not exactly have the sexual attraction required for a satisfactory—

 _‘You and_ Fitz _? Are you_ serious _?’_

Oh. Bugger.

Skye sounds shocked, amused, and jealous all in one and you simply don’t have the mental capacity required to deal with all of this right now!

 _‘It was one time! Oh, goodness. Don’t tell him you know. You can’t tell him you know! We swore on_ the Realm of the Nebulae _that we’d never tell anyone! And—and that’s not the_ point _, anyways! I just meant! I only meant! You can—if you would like—feel free to—’_

_‘Get off?’_

Skye exhales slowly and you do the same. The mattress squeaks when you shift and you reflexively straighten the shirt of your nightwear, smoothing it down over your stomach and it… doesn’t particularly help matters, honestly.

_‘Yes. I… won’t be offended. We can try to… block each other out. Perhaps.’_

Her response is rapid. Hardly thought at all before it’s transmitted directly to you.

_‘What if I want you to listen?’_

You squeak. Audibly.

It’s clearly not something Skye meant to say—or, rather, _think—_ aloud. But there’s no turning back now; not after you’ve given her _permission_ , as it were, to masturbate to the thought of… you. Essentially. And it seems that Skye has given up on trying to organize her thoughts or convey them in an orderly manner, because they are a blur of want and need and—and _relief_ when she starts to slip her boxers off and you can nearly _see_ it; the lift of her hips as she removes them and her underthings (which are plain cotton, you hear her think fleetingly and embarrassingly, and you find that sexy, for reasons you cannot exactly pinpoint) and the way her chest heaves when she slides her right hand over her pelvic bone and—oh.

_Oh. Hell._

_Oh bugger._

_God._

You try not to listen.

The periodic elements game is one you and Fitz have played for years as a means of a distraction and you try to do so now, even starting at 109 instead of 1, for further challenge and diversion, and it’s _Meitnerium, Hassium, Bohrium, Seaborgium, Dubnium and—_

 _‘Jemma, I swear to god—”_ Skye growls, because apparently one can growl in telepathic form and it’s quite effective—if the _intended_ effect is to force you to stop thinking about Rutherfordium and instead focus on more basic biological needs and functions—seeing as your pajama top is halfway unbuttoned before you even realize your own intentions.

Though those intentions certainly become known when you slide the matching bottoms off without hesitation and your hand follows the route Skye’s had taken on her own body not two minutes before. And _oh—oh, yes—_ there’s a significant amount of lubrication present and—

 _‘Fucking hell, Jemma—god—d’you have to call it that?’_ Not that Skye sounds particularly angry, groaning and stumbling over her thoughts as she is.

_‘Pardon me, but that’s the proper terminology! What would you prefer I—oh—oh bloody yes—”_

But when you find your clit, fingers sliding down and then back up, proper terminology hardly matters anymore.

 _‘Wet,’_ Skye moans. _‘Call it—You’re_ wet _. Fuck. So wet.’_

You’ll call it whatever Skye wants you to call it.

(Do whatever she’d like you to do.)

The dream had left you wanting and aching, but now… this is something else entirely. You’ve never felt _anything_ like this; your thumb is moving in already somewhat frantic circles and your fingers find the source of that _wetness_ , your arousal spiking to further heights as Skye’s building pleasure pushes through your bond in waves.

It’s… impossible. An endless loop of you feeling her and her feeling you and you feeling her feeling you and—and—and—your fingers are curling or maybe Skye’s are and you can hear ( _feel_ ) your name blended in her less coherent thoughts of _yesfuckshityes_ when she tumbles over the edge.

It’s enough to send you there as well.

Whimpering and biting at your lip and tasting the blood and _not_ as preoccupied with avoiding being overheard as you probably ought to be. Hips arching off the mattress and free hand fisting the sheets and heels digging into the comforter bunched at the foot of the bed. Skye’s name sliding across your tongue and occupying the whole of your mind and burning a path through your veins.

_‘I—holy—Jemma—holy shit.’_

The sound of your breathing is loud, but you’re glad for the obvious sign that you are, in fact, still alive.

Because—

Holy shit, indeed.

\---

The next morning is awkward.

It is _extremely_ awkward.

Adverbs are meant to be used with care, but you think you’re entitled to the use of one here. _Extremely_ entitled, even.

Because you _know_ awkward. You often _live_ in a realm of awkwardness. You regularly contribute to the overall sense of awkward.

But the morning after the… _incident_ is beyond even your (worst) expectations. The awkwardness radiates in every dimension—touches on not only physical, but also mental sensation. You can both see and _feel_ the blush on Skye’s cheeks and neck and _chest_ and… yes, best not to venture any further down that line of thought, because goodness, you’ve never seen even Fitz turn this red and he’s as pale as a sheet of standard paper.

It is obvious to you that you must do something about this. And with haste.

“It was only _sex_.”

Skye nearly chokes on her coffee and her eyes widen to a point that is surely uncomfortable.

Perhaps not a successful intervention then. You try again.

“Not even _sex_ , really, as there was no penetration, to which the term ‘intercourse’ technically implies, but oh, it _is_ a complicated definition, isn’t it? I believe mutual masturbation falls under the vague category of ‘outercourse’, though…”

“Oh god, _Simmons_! Please stop!”

"I'm simply saying it's nothing to be... concerned with." You pause, looking down at your yogurt (it's peach, Skye's least favorite flavor, and you'd taken it from the fridge without thinking, leaving the raspberry in place). "I just... I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable. Around me. Ever."

You're fidgeting, you know, moving your hands to the sides of your own neck and rubbing the skin there. But you feel... uneasy. Emotions have been muted from Skye this morning and you'd gotten used to the metaphorical cheat sheet that the telepathy has offered you the past several days. But now... well, now that you think on it, it's feeling rather... fuzzy. Beyond even the blank white wall Skye is so desperately projecting. The thought makes you pause for a moment, and consider the implications. Which means you nearly miss Skye's response, ironically enough.

"No! I... hey, I just didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable. Since um—you know—obviously you know, I mean, but ugh—you know, I enjoyed it." Skye flushes. "And you seem to think that's just a weird byproduct of this whole thing—us having these feelings, but... uh, yeah, I just don't want you to feel weird."

The phrasing is odd, and you abandon your thoughts on the change in your connection, at least for the moment.

"Do you not?"

"What?"

For the first time, Skye fully looks up from her coffee. There's a good deal of distance between the two of you—she had jammed herself into the far corner of the kitchen upon her arrival, seemingly as far away as possible from the counter where you now sat.

"I... do you not think that? Do you have any contrary evidence that what we're feeling is... not related to the changes in our brain chemistry?"

You sound hopeful. You know you sound hopeful. And Skye doesn't need to open herself up to your connection to hear it, you're pretty sure.

Her face pinches a little in confusion, but there's almost a smile flirting about her lips.

"Um. I... maybe. I dunno. Maybe we should... wait. You know? See what happens after... after you figure this out."

Your nod is slow and thoughtful.

"That seems wise." Which brings you back to the wall blocking Skye's thoughts from yours. "But I may need you to... let me in. In order to do so."

Skye looks down again. "Oh. Yeah. Um..."

"You may need to trust me."

She sighs a little, and the wall is gone.

‘ _I do._ '

 

\---

"Alright, and how about now?"

"A bicycle. Or motorcycle? A scooter? I dunno. It's red."

"Mmhmm, and now?"

"Uhh... ' _It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..._ '"

"And now?"

"A... ribbon? Like a little blue award ribbon type thing?"

"Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. It seems as though there may be a direct correlation between the strength of the association between the thought and the transmitter and the clarity of the received image! Was it that way in the beginning? I don't recall it being so. Perhaps if we..."

You look up at Skye's groan to find she has dropped her head on the lab bench, directly across from you.

"Can you tell what I'm thinking right now, Simmons?"

It takes a moment of concentration, but you eventually realize Skye is sending you the image of a very cranky baby.

"I don't..."

"That's me. I am tired. And my brain hurts. I think you've made my brain hurt. I mean, _god_ , you're just asking me the same thing over and over, basically. This isn't even real _science_ , is it?"

"But..." You look down at your notebook, perplexed. "I'm writing it all down. In a chart. Not to mention, repetition is a valuable component in any rigorous..."

"Jemma," Skye whines. "Please. Break."

Skye's sad little pout when she raises her head is a far more effective visual than any random whining child.

"Oh, very well. I'm not sure I can learn any more from this today, regardless."

"Thank you!"

For someone who claims to be exhausted, Skye jumps up from the bench remarkably quickly. And rounds it with speed as well. And then plants a kiss on your cheek with more enthusiasm that you would have expected three seconds ago. (Had you been expecting anything like this at all, which you hadn't!) And it's _silly_ isn't it? That a simple kiss on the _cheek_ could do this to you when not two nights ago you had...

Skye is out of the lab before she realizes what she's done and what you're thinking about, and maybe certain images are difficult to transmit, but you're quite sure you can _feel_ her flush of embarrassment.

Or maybe that's your own.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

\---

“Jemma.”

You know you’re in trouble immediately. Without even turning around. Without being able to read his mind. Without a single other word. You know you are in trouble and you nearly twitch with the knowledge that there is nothing you can say or do to escape this confrontation—for it has been building for some time now.

Still, you try.

“Oh, Fitz! I was just…”

He looks sad, and that stops your babble of potential lies that would certainly be of no use anyways, as soon as you turn.

“You can tell me. Whatever it is. You know you can tell me.”

You nod and then take a deep breath.

“Mindreading.”

Fitz’s eyes widen.

\---

With Fitz in the know (about the mindreading, at least), things become easier.

Certainly, lying has always put a bit of a strain on you, but more than that, you now have Fitz’s help in the laboratory, which is a tremendous relief; you have always worked best together.

Thus, things become easier.

Which is why it makes sense that things immediately after begin to fall apart.

(You like to think about the second law of thermodynamics— _every process occurring in nature proceeds in the sense in which the sum of the entropies of all bodies taking part in the process is increased. In the limit,_ i.e. _for reversible processes, the sum of the entropies remains unchanged._ Order in one aspect is always met with disorder in another, and this had always seemed to you to apply to areas a bit beyond the scientifically acceptable.)

It starts with the static.

That is the only way you can describe it; a slight static to Skye’s thoughts—as though tuned in to a station not even a megahertz off from the true number. When you concentrate it only strikes harder against your skull—a grating sound that distorts the connection between you two, at odd intervals.

Soon, the words start to fade completely.

It happens so quickly—in the span of a day—that you feel it must be a mistake. But you wake up the next morning and the ability to send fully worded thoughts to Skye is gone, though you can still feel her worry, vibrant and strong and entirely separate from your own anxiety.

“It’s likely the power of the charge is fading. Skye shouldn’t have been able to hold it in the first place, really, so it’s not surprising that it’s starting to slip,” Fitz intones, eyes stuck on the screen before him.

You exchange a look with Skye—full of worry—and her hand takes yours, in an almost absentminded gesture that shoots warmth through you more effectively than any cup of tea.

“But this is a good thing.” You look up and Fitz is looking at the both of you in utter confusion. “Isn’t it?”

“Right,” Skye says, uncertain and unconvinced. “Of course it is. The problem’s going away. All on it’s own. Nice and easy.”

You can feel her sadness and your own; illogical and irrational, but still strongly felt.

“Yes,” you repeat. “It’s wonderful.”

\---

When you wake, two days later, your room is dark, and a quick look at your clock tells you this would be the case even if you weren't up high enough in the clouds for this to not necessarily be indicative of the time of day. But it's not the darkness that catches your attention—not really. Rather, it is the sudden, inexplicable feeling of loss. Or, at least, inexplicable for a long, frightening moment, before you realize what it is that's suddenly missing.

The moment you do, you are out of your bed, stumbling over your sheets, out of the door and... nearly colliding into Skye right outside.

Her hands come up to brace your shoulders and keep you steady and you have absolutely no idea what she's thinking when her bare skin touches yours; there is no parallel flash of heat or momentary twirling of her thoughts or wordless 'oh' pressing soft against your temporal lobe or... perhaps there is, but suddenly it’s not something you can feel for youself. And it all feels so very empty.

"Skye. It's..."

"Gone. Yeah."

Skye sounds morose, but you feel your lips lift, if only a bit.

"And yet you still knew what I was going to say."

"Doesn't really take a crazy weird brain meld to manage that. Or... not this time, at least."

"A crazy weird brain meld that's gone," you say, and now you're the one that sounds morose.

"Oh, I dunno about that. Since you just used the phrase 'crazy weird brain meld'. Maybe my brain rubbed off on yours." Skye makes a face. "Yikes. Sorry about that."

"We actually should, most likely, investigate the residual effects of the superluminal communication—if that's indeed what was occurring—on patterns of..."

"And she's back," Skye grins. "Guess my brain junk didn't totally contaminate yours. Yay."

It occurs to you then that you and Skye are standing in the lobby of the Bus, in your pajamas, mourning the loss of the ability to share thoughts, and none of this is particularly strange at all. The thought makes you smile a little, and shake your head. And Skye, even without being able to hear the thought for herself, seems to understand it all the same.

"Our lives are kinda weird, huh?"

"That is perhaps an understatement, Skye."

She shrugs a little, but doesn't correct you. In fact, she goes silent, a bit of a bashful expression appearing. You know this will not be the last time you wish you knew exactly what is on her mind.

"What is it?"

"Well... I was just thinking—" She swallows. "Even though our lives are weird. And we're always running into problems and bad guys and 0-8-4s and craziness..."

"Skye!"

"...I was just thinking maybe we could make time for like... a date."

You feel your eyebrows rise.

"I know you said maybe... it might be a mind meld thing, but..." Skye steels herself. "I think you're wrong."

"Skye..."

"Yeah!" She cuts in again, more strongly this time, taking a step closer in the process. "Yeah! Wrong! I think Jemma Simmons is wrong. Because being in your head didn't change anything. That's always how it's been! Those thoughts have been there for a while and—well— they’ve been there for me, at least. I've always thought you were cute. And... maybe I've had that dream before too," she adds, blushing so strongly that it's visible through her dark skin.

"Oh. That's..."

Skye's expression is anxious, but you're not entirely sure what to say. Other than the obvious.

"Okay."

Or maybe not so obvious, because Skye’s face scrunches up in confusion and she shifts on her feet anxiously.

" _‘It's_ okay’ or ‘okay, I'll go on a date with you, you incredible, gorgeous, former hacktivist, you’?"

"The latter," you laugh, but then blush when you realize how easily the words have come out, and your next words come out far softer. “Definitely the latter.”

\---

“Your coffee’s brewing. Four minutes, thirty-five seconds,” you say, not looking up from your tablet, and a kiss on your temple is the only response you get, though you can feel Skye move around you into the kitchen, where she greets Tripp and Fitz with a slightly grumpy ‘good morning’.

It’s not long before a lightly browned piece of toast (with a smattering of marmalade on top) is placed on the counter in front of you, and you swap it for the granola that you’d only eaten half of, not ten minutes before.

“Just how I like it,” Skye says, taking a spoonful of the now-soggy granola, and you make a face, as you always do.

“I will never understand…”

“…Your odd predilection for saturated cereal,” Skye finishes, her tone pitched and _slightly_ mocking, and two distinct groans come from the kitchen.

“Sometimes I swear you two can read each others’ minds,” Tripp sighs.

You look up at that. Tripp has already gone back to his cereal (Wheaties), but Skye is grinning widely at you, and maybe there’s no more alien technology at work, but you know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“Oh, nah, we stopped with the mind reading…”

“…Nearly two weeks ago,” you finish with a grin of your own.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Applied Quantum Superluminal Communication](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275959) by [smallandsundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallandsundry/pseuds/smallandsundry)




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